


Eventualities

by Cultivation



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Being an Asshole, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Blood and Violence, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Brutal Murder, Character Study, Child Death, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Repressed, Empathy, Fate, Fate & Destiny, Graphic Description of Corpses, Heavy Angst, Killing, Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of batfamily, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Parallels, Ratings: R, Repression, Sad with a Happy Ending, Secret Identity, Self-Hatred, Sensitive Bruce Wayne, Sexual Identity, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-11-08 12:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20835515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cultivation/pseuds/Cultivation
Summary: “But he is full of contradictions. Joker kills and he loves, indiscriminately. He has taken people away and given them out. But, unlike almost everyone else, he has been there. Through everything, through everyone. No one can claim that. At the very least, they could be friends and, at the very least, that should be a terrifying thought.”Joker has been missing, leaving Bruce uncomfortable calling cards across Gotham. Bruce, more so now than ever, is struggling with processing it all. Amidst each clue is uneasy memories, bringing up the past when he wishes to remain in blissful ignorance. Bruce can only hope there is a light at the end of the tunnel.





	Eventualities

Gentle, _ too _gentle. Bruce feels it in his bones. Whatever Joker has planned next will be Bruce’s downfall; the ultimate finale to their endless battling.

_ Will it feel like a relief? Will it be what I wanted? Will it be what he wanted? _

It’s hard to process, it’s not a plan exactly. Bruce just _ knows _where Joker is going to lead him. It’ll break him, easy and effortless. He can feel it. He doesn’t like it, not one bit. But Bruce takes it in regardless. 

What used to make him feel alive only makes him feel deader now. Every blood splatter by his fist takes the very essence of his soul as forfeit. There are many things Bruce wishes he could do to quell these uneasy thoughts he has; yet, he routinely forces himself into the more unhealthy option of coping.

The manor is disturbingly quiet and the attic that Bruce occupies makes it seem even more so than usual. The light shines brightly through the old window, despite the grime and scratches left on its pane. He sits, legs crossed in meditation, away from the light as to not disturb its flow. Bruce finds it rude to give it anything else but that courtesy. 

Joker likes to play games, always has. This is simply one of them. Bruce’s span of hopefulness should not end here, when nothing has happened for months. That _ should _ inspire him. 

All it manages to do is make him more paranoid, more suspicious. Bruce is afraid that any corner he turns, he’ll find him alone. He’s afraid that when he finds him, Joker will be happy and alone. Happy and alone, _ without _him.

As unlikely a thought as it seems, it plagues Bruce’s restless nights relentlessly. If Joker doesn’t break him first, Bruce is sure he’ll manage it himself. He _ has _ never been good with being alone like this. Never.

His meditation has become plagued in recent years by the ever constant reminder of his _attachments_. Bruce no longer finds the drive or the focus to maintain non-self for very long. He always drifts away; Bruce’s brain can never stop thinking. Currently, his mind is buzzing with all the places the Joker could have possibly gone. 

Bruce has already checked his previous locations. The abandoned funhouse in the south side, the fairgrounds by the lake, the warehouse over near Crime Alley. None of them checked out. 

Gentle. The last time Joker touched him, it was gentle. Too _ goddamn _gentle. Like he knew Bruce would break. Like he knew Bruce would overthink it. Like he enjoys the thrill of the hunt. Bruce knows this is intentional, it always is.

Joker didn’t fight against the cuffing or the drive. He was just bitter and silent. Ever so silent. Silence always means he is planning. He was planning. The plan is working so far. Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to channel into nirvana.

_ Where are you? _

He shudders quietly to himself. The room smells of dust and mildew. Outside, the sky has warped into a pale gray. The light is no longer vibrant; it grows dimmer with every minute that passes. He attempts to return to his meditative state. 

_ Where are you hiding? What are you planning? _

His eyelids open slowly, failure gripping him and mocking him all the same. The world feels overwhelming at times like these. That’s why he came here, in the attic, to meditate. There are cardboard boxes, filled with antique photo albums and family heirlooms. It’s small, confined, familiar, and provides complete isolation.

He looks to the window and watches the sunlight fade with the passage of time. Bruce is staring for too long, until the moon rises. But the moon remains to be seen, covered up by the signature Gotham City rain clouds. The pitter-pattering sound of rain against the window lulls his conscious to rest.

His meditation comes with ease now. He reminds himself of this. Gotham is his lifeline, forever pulling him out just when he is about to sink. Bruce has become erratic with the Joker’s sudden disappearance. He must rely on Gotham, now more than ever, to pull him from the all-consuming waves of his battered psyche. 

He is disappointed with himself nonetheless. Bruce had trained himself many years ago to be able to achieve such states as effortlessly as blinking an eye. In recent years, this training has given him no peace. Time always seems to take Bruce in its unmerciful grip, slowly removing his methods of coping over the course of his life. Bruce knows the ones that remain will slowly corrode him as the years pass. 

Bruce inhales the new scent that fills the room. The rainfall is heavy against the aging rooftop, drops of water leaking and falling onto the wooden floorboards. The attic is infested with spiders and, every once in awhile, Bruce will feel a spider crawling against his skin. He watches it crawl, unmoving and unthreatened. He is numb to such minute things; it is one of the few things he still prides himself on.

He can smell the dampness. He brings himself to a different place, a manufactured sanctuary. But, this _ sanctuary _ is less than meditative. In this place, he is in a cabin, stuck in a snowstorm, forevermore. Sitting across from Bruce is _ him. _It doesn’t surprise Bruce. It isn’t the first time and he knows it won’t be the last.

The atmosphere is warm, a fire flickering atop clean-cut logs. It’s picturesque yet… the Joker’s scarred face bleeds. The blood drips down from his chin and onto the polished floorboards, as if freshly cut open. His smile is wider than ever, an orange hue reflecting in his eyes from the fire. The white foundation on his face is fresh and smooth, his lipstick stains his mouth as always. Black and gray makeup cakes around his eyes, highlighting his dark irises. Green hair sits around his neck in stunted waves.

The quiet is common for this kind of moment. It isn’t common in real life. Joker never knows when to stay quiet. Not until recently that is. The silence isn’t new for his meditative states, the unease is. Bruce’s eyes snap open. 

The light is gone, replaced with darkness. Bruce’s eyes adjust slowly. He sits, watching the rain and, eventually, allows himself to leave the attic. He makes the journey, as he always does, to the cave. He doesn’t turn on a single light; he could execute the routine blindfolded.

The cave door swings open for him through a button inside the candelabra. His father always praised the thing, though, Bruce never understood why. He polished it as if it were precious. Bruce does the same, if only compelled to because his father did. 

He enters the cave, a strong earthy smell filling his senses, uniquely stronger than the smell of the attic. Bruce stays in place until the door is closes behind him. He descends the steps with familiarity. It’s one of the few things that still feels that way. Familiar. The glass cylinder that encases his suit reveals itself. Bruce looks to his right, at the _ other _case. He doesn’t look again.

He pulls on the suit, piece by piece. The last piece is the cowl. Bruce stares at the fabric and he doesn’t think; if he does, the risk of him venting his frustrations upon it are astronomically high. He feels the cool material against his face, neck, and hair. Another rare action of familiarity.

He walks to the vehicle and sits in the driver's seat. The engine vibrates throughout the car. The panels all light up and Bruce places his hands on the stick shift. He turns the car around and drives out of the cave in a practiced motion.

Bruce drives through Gotham, his city, and surveys the emotions on the streets. His image alone attracts more people to Gotham. There are shirts with his symbol on them, there are novelties of all kinds in direct reference to him spread throughout every tourist shop. Most say would say it is flattery yet Bruce only finds it unnerving. If only they all knew the thoughts that run through his mind. They wouldn’t be selling shirts then.

His police scanner tells him there is a disturbance at Arkham. Bruce applies pressure to the gas pedal. The Batmobile’s speed accelerates. His turns are sharp and keep him on his toes. The police won’t arrive at Arkham in time, not for escapes or riots. It’s too far and oftentimes, not worth the effort when all the crime comes to the intercity anyway. Arkham’s land lies on the outskirts of the city, a good thirty minutes for the police to get to. It only takes Bruce ten.

Bruce arrives at the gates, jumping out of his vehicle and opening them; the sound that accompanies it is akin to that of nails on a chalkboard. Inside the grounds, the grass is patchy and dying. Bruce recognizes a strange object near the entrance doorsteps. He squats and retrieves it. It’s a tube of lipstick. For a shameful moment, the sight of it gives him an intense sense of relief. Bruce inspects the side, finding a thumbprint of white. He puts it inside a compartment on his belt.

He pushes the doors of Arkham open, a strong garlic scent blowing as he does. Bruce steps back and retrieves a gas mask from his belt. Then, he steps inside, the smell so strong it even seeps through his mask. He flicks on the night vision in his cowl, seeing through the gas. The receptionists at the front desk are laying against their desks, dead. 

Bruce continues walking, heading towards the inmate cells. Each and every cell remains locked. All of them are dead as well. He checks a few of the bodies quickly for the cause of death. He finds two of the bodies showing evidence of asphyxiation. Bruce determines then that Phosgene, one of Joker’s favorites, was released throughout the building in large amounts. Doctors in the hallway are laid across the smooth cement floor, eyes wide and bodies cold. Patients and inmates either lie peacefully in their beds or, more commonly than not, are lying down in awkward positions, with their eyes open. He wants to close their eyes, if only to stop them from staring back at him as he walks. 

He reaches Joker’s previous cell. Inside the cell, just as suspected, is a _ gift _from Joker. The box is purple with satin green ribbon, tied in a neat bow. Joker was always about presentation; nothing has changed. Bruce is hesitant to open the box. He knows that Joker is all about surprises. He narrows his eyes, thinking about all the things that could be hidden inside the box. It’s small, equivalent to the size engagement rings comes in. The significance is obvious.

He picks it up, finding the weight lighter than he expected. He lifts the top up, revealing a black painted fingernail _ and _ a ring. The ring is small, crafted for a woman most likely. It’s simple too, a thin golden band. There is a crumpled piece of paper alongside it. It’s small, sized probably to fit in the box. Bruce unravels the note. 

> _ I’m back. Did you miss me?_

Bruce swallows dryly; he knows that handwriting better than anyone. He crumbles the note back up and leaves Arkham, stepping over too many bodies to count. They don’t faze him anymore. He doesn’t feel the intensity he used to for death. Seeing it so many times, so many gruesome ways; he can no longer connect it with reality. Joker’s words seer his mind.

_ Yes… I did. _

On the drive home, he passes the cops; Gordon is among them. Bruce reflects on the significance of the black nail. He always reads a little too far into things. But Joker knows that and plays into it. It’s an ongoing cycle. Bruce shouldn’t do it yet, he does it anyway.

Bruce arrives at the cave, taking in the brisk air that greets him. He walks to the computer to double-check the fingerprint. It matches with Joker’s file instantly. He checks the local news and observes the police scanners for information from Joker’s _ visit _ to Arkham. They confirm his suspicions. It is Phosgene. He takes the tiny box apart, looking for any other minute pieces of evidence. Nothing is hidden or hard to explain. All he can focus on is the nail.

_ Joker painted his nails. Bruce had an inclination that this was done to steal his attention; unfortunately, in Joker’s favor, it worked. His smile was uncontainable when Bruce finally got a hold of him. The empty dull surroundings didn’t help to pull his focus. _

_ “Notice something, Batsy?” Bruce turned him around roughly and cuffed him behind his back. Joker’s fingers attempted to lace themselves with Bruce’s. He was frustrated for letting himself get distracted because of such a meaningless chance of appearance. “I thought so! I did them just for you, do you like them?” Bruce didn’t answer. Joker laughed. _

_ The drive to Arkham was not silent. It rarely ever was. Joker talked about anything, Bruce tuned it out. It wasn’t until they were close to the gates that Joker said something Bruce didn’t tune out. _

_ “You’re afraid.” He almost stopped the car just to punch him. Instead, he slowed his speed gradually and listened cautiously. His hands stiffened against the steering wheel. “I know something about you that you don’t want me to know.” Joker leaned towards him in his seat. “And you’re afraid that I’ll take advantage of it.” He giggles mirthlessly. “Don’t worry too much about it, Bats. I won’t tell.” Bruce wasn’t quite sure what that meant but he had ideas. _

Then, there is the ring. The ring could mean a lot of different things. Bruce can only assume that Joker means it in the most literal sense. He has never been one for simplicity though. The conclusion he comes to is hidden within another memory. This one isn’t as interpretable.

_ He plucked her finger, out of all the different bodies. Bruce shivered at the sight alone. Joker shimmied the ring off easily, the metal band slick with blood. It was a wedding ring, from what he could gather. Joker’s laugh, a rather anxious sound, permeated through the entire building. This building he seemed to keep coming to. There was nothing special about it. It was rather boring, for Joker’s taste anyway. _

_ “Batsy, Batsy, Batsy,” he cooed. “It’s okay. They don’t matter. It’s just you and me now. We’re all that matter.” Joker’s tone was almost desperate to convince him. Bruce was stiff and disgusted with the scene in front of him. He wanted to puke. He had never seen this many bodies before. He was too stunned to stop Joker from approaching dangerously close to him. Bruce fell to his knees, overcome with the weak emotions. Joker stared on, brief amusement on his face. “Don’t be afraid, honey.” Despite this statement and the satisfaction he was getting out of the situation, Joker sounded rather hesitant himself, as if suddenly unsure how Bruce would react. Joker slid the ring onto Bruce’s gloved finger, cackling. Bruce couldn’t speak or move. _

_ When he did move, he left Joker in a messy puddle of his own blood, cuffed to a pole for Gordon to find. _

Bruce is aware of what it means now. The memories make him uncomfortable. He was naive then, unable to see what was right in front of him. Bruce couldn’t know what would happen to him. He couldn’t predict how his mind would scatter, latching onto the only constant in his life. He couldn’t predict how Joker would shape his thoughts. He couldn’t predict what would happen to Dick.

_ No, anything but that— _

He knows where to look next. The fingernail is a clue, playing into Bruce’s suspicious nature. The ring is a clattering bell. Bruce leaves the cave in hot pursuit, withdrawing the invasive thoughts from his mind. He arrives at the warehouse, the dull and boring place where both memories occurred. It remains just as uninteresting as before, pristinely so.

_ Must be Joker’s handiwork. _

Bruce walks inside, pushing the warehouse doors agape. They open with a screech from the rusty hinges. Inside, the smell is horrid and engulfs the senses. There are twenty-four individual oil drums of acids, each seemingly fifty-five pounds, lined up in rows. Eleven are filled with lye and one is filled with sulfuric acid. Each oil drum is filled with body parts. 

Bruce looks away from the gruesome display. Joker was only _ generous _enough to fill exactly one of the oil drums with sulfuric acid. Bruce straps his gas mask on, investigating at a quicker pace. If he isn’t careful, he’ll pass out from the smell alone. There is a line of empty space, separating the oil drums into two rows on the right and left. They form two by six, on either side. Bruce doesn’t like the symmetry; this doesn’t feel like the Joker.

_ This feels like someone else. _

He walks forward, spotting another gift on the ground. This one is larger, equivalent to the size of a picnic basket. The wrapping paper is the same as before. Bruce is no longer afraid to open it. He tears off the ribbon and paper, disregarding the meticulously perfected wrapping with scorn. 

The wrapping paper only covered a cardboard box. From within one of the many compartments in his belt, Bruce pulls out a box cutter. He usually doesn’t need to use it for actual boxes. He cuts through the taped seal and opens up the cardboard flaps. It reveals a freshly polished jewelry box. Bruce takes it as evidence and returns to the cave to analyze it later. 

On his way back, he stops a few muggings and prevents an attempted assault in the east side. He doesn’t feel the energy of any of it. It’s more akin to several different patterns he’s memorized over time. Each pattern takes a certain amount of moves and usage of techniques to execute. Each is brutal and violent, to which Bruce had garnered a restlessness for but no distaste.

Bruce doesn’t like the drops of dried blood on his gloves that he has to clean off. He doesn’t like the way his fist connects with flesh and bone. He doesn’t like the sickening sounds of breaks and fractures. He doesn’t like where the anger from within takes full control of his body. He doesn’t like how his mind becomes blank. It isn’t a pleasant release anymore; it’s just another coping mechanism. But, the worst part of it all is it doesn’t sicken him anymore. It just tires him.

There is another aspect to it that does disturb him though. Or, rather, _ did _ . He remembers a time where he was naive. In that short frame of time, before he witnessed murder scenes on the daily, he was sensitive. Bruce never admitted it to himself or anyone else, but he knew. He had so much empathy and had nowhere to place it. For the most part, he held it inside. Things changed and that empathy was sapped from him. But, every so often, he can feel it still _ lingering _. What used to come easy and unwanted, comes so little and undeserving. 

Bruce scans the jewelry box and envelope obsessively. The jewelry box has three tiny drawers and is made of ginger-colored wood. Bruce opens the first drawer. There are trace amounts of a variety of drugs that Bruce tests for. That isn’t really the issue though. Drugs are common for Joker. What catches Bruce’s eye is the necklace. The theme, so far, is jewelry. Joker has never been one for material things though. 

_ No, he likes his toys alive. _

The necklace is a matinee length pearl strand. The pearls are fake and cheap, but all too meaningful. For a while, Bruce has assumed Joker knew his identity. He has been in the cave, he has dropped his name; it’s obvious for anyone who’s watching, yet, no one watches. He doesn’t stare at them for too long. He shuts the top drawer and reaches to pull the middle one. 

When he opens it, he finds a bundle of beads loosely put together on a fabric cord. Around it is a few tablets of alprazolam. The beads are the kind found in kid activity books; they’re too colorful and too loud. Bruce imagines Joker enjoys both of those qualities about them. Bruce couldn’t differ more. They rattle as he shuts the drawer and goes for the last one. 

The last drawer opens with a gut-wrenching type of ease. There is a pocket knife, the kind Bruce is all too familiar with. Surrounding it are dozens of capsules of Vicodin. He pulls out the knife and inspects it for any new marks, scratches, or dents. He finds none. He checks the pearls for it too, only finding remnants of a powdery concoction on them. The tests come back with several results. 

It’s a mixture of several different antidepressants. Three show up clearly: fluoxetine, sertraline, and paroxetine. All of the drugs have been given to Joker during his short stays at Arkham. Bruce pulls out all of the drawers from the jewelry box, searching for any missed details. He avoids reading the letter. He’ll save it for after. On the back of each drawer, they are numbers. The top drawer is labeled with a three, the middle with a two, and the last with a twenty-five. 

_ 3, 2, 25. 3225. 3225 Plymouth Street. The knife. The drugstore. _

Bruce knows the spot. It’s located in a rundown area in the Southside. Compared to the rest of Gotham, the Southside is relatively safe. It’s where most of the big business comes. Wayne Enterprises is located there, a glaringly large and reflective tower that never fails to send chills down Bruce’s spine. He doesn’t like being a part of it and never really has. It was his father’s company, not his. But, he needed the funding. Public image was also a part of it. He doesn’t go out that much anymore though. 

The pocket knife is a clue linked to the address. The pearls are not. Joker never leaves things ambiguous. They must mean something. There has to be more to it than just his identity. 

_ Or, I’m just losing it. _

Bruce doesn’t like thinking about that. He already came to the conclusion not that long ago, after the Joker left, that he would fall off the cliff of sanity. Looking for him was one thing he wasn’t actively doing, in an attempt to forget him entirely. Bruce likes to think that would have worked for him; it didn’t, it never has. It’s guaranteed, whatever Joker has in store for him. There’s not much left for Joker to take of Bruce. Most of it is already his. The pocket knife is a blatant display of that. 

_ Bruce struggled against the tape, feeling the Joker’s fingers against his chin. He wasn’t disgusted by it, which was the worst part of it all. He refused to describe the feeling. He’d rather die. He fished the pocket knife out of his belt at great discomfort, none of it showing on his face. Joker was laughing, as always. The scars on his face lifted with each cackle. _

_ “Looky looky what I caught!” he exclaimed. “A great big Bat!” He turned dramatically and leaned his back against Bruce, his neck bending down into the crook of Bruce’s shoulder. “Whatever shall we do with him?” he whispered into Bruce’s ear. Joker ripped the duct tape off of his mouth without warning. The sting was nothing, He had already been in worse pain. He narrowed his eyes at Joker who, in turn, winked at him. _

_ “Joker,” said Bruce lowly. “What are you planning?” Joker smiled briefly at him before leaning forward and returning to his standing point. Bruce didn’t know where they were. He evaluated the area quickly. Some kind of backroom. Concrete floors, health code signs, warm temperature. All very generic. _

_ “Hush, I’m trying to woo you.” He twirled in place and grabbed a red feather boa from the plastic table in the corner of the room. Bruce was angry; the rage that filled him was a deep-seated one. All of this was a waste of time. Joker hasn’t killed in quite some time and, therefore, was not at the top of Bruce’s priorities. _

_ “It’s not working.” Joker’s smile faded gradually. Joker looked at him and then, something changed. As if some horror overtook him, his breathing became erratic and he collapsed to the floor. As he did, Bruce cut the tape that bound him with the knife and rushed over to the Joker. He checked his pulse, dropping the knife in the process. To his surprise, Joker wasn’t dying. He was having some kind of panic attack. Bruce didn’t know what to do at first; his instincts wanted him to cuff Joker and leave him an incoherent mess for the cops to find. But another part of Bruce, the part that cared just a little too much about everyone and anyone, decided to take control of the situation; it wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last. _

_ “Breath,” Bruce instructed. He leaned down, getting on his knees and pulling Joker into a sitting position. “Slower.” His eyes landed on Bruce’s through the haze of breathing. Joker’s hand slid into Bruce’s, squeezing hard, as if holding on for dear life. Bruce let him do it. He didn’t want to squeeze back. But, he did. Joker noticed this, as his breathing slowed to a reasonable pace. The place was quiet, the sound of a leak permeating the room more than anything else. Strangely, Joker was the one to pull his hand away. He wasn’t repulsed, just shocked. Bruce paused, lost in untranslatable emotions. Bruce got up from his place on the floor, attempting to get away from the situation entirely. But Joker caught up. _

_ “Hey––“ he said, tugging on his wrist. Bruce remained motionless, not walking or pulling away from Joker’s grip. “You must know, don’t you?” The question was vague, and intentionally so. Anyone could have been listening. Bruce was sure what he meant this time around. There was no more room for interpretation. Their relationship was becoming soft rather than toxic. Bruce wanted to punch him, he did. But time didn’t give him that urge or anger. Time only gave him acceptance and understanding. Bruce desperately craved the inability to understand. “We can’t just ignore it, I don’t think I can––“ Bruce removed Joker’s hand from his wrist and faced him. He only showed a cold face. _

_ “You don’t get it,” Bruce spoke. “This doesn’t end, it never will.” Joker nodded slowly, holding his own hand and preventing it from shaking. “We don’t get that kind of ending.” Joker closed his eyes and his painted lips began to quiver. _

_ “Does it matter if I didn’t mean it?” asked Joker quietly. “If I didn’t mean all the” –– he motioned his hands in a nervous fashion –– “all the death?” Bruce was silent, contemplating his words. Joker took his silence as an answer. “I didn’t mean it, I don’t–– I can’t really stop my––“ _

_ “I know you didn’t,” replied Bruce. It was barely above a whisper. Joker smiled solemnly in response. “Do me a favor, Joker, and lay low.” Joker nodded wordlessly and Bruce turned and left, leaving the pocket knife behind. He would make no effort to retrieve it. When he opened the door to the exit, he found himself in the middle of a drugstore. But, no one was there to greet him. _

Bruce can feel his bones, his flesh, and his skin. They fit around him, but they don’t feel like him. They are just a husk, a shell encasing his broken mind. They bruise, they break, and they tear but they never leave him. He feels all these things, emotional and physical, and they weigh him down. Bruce usually finds it better to ignore the feelings before they overcome him. Otherwise, they will drown him.

He breathes in the cave’s dense atmosphere. Bruce listens into the drops of condensation hitting the smooth stone floors from the ceiling of rock above. He closes his eyes, picturing the drops falling in his head. He attempts to empty his mind.

_ If I could fix you— _

Bruce’s eyes snap open and, soon after, he makes his way back to the car. The mission is what matters, not the object of it. Joker’s latest murder spree at Arkham designates his fixation this time; there always is that overlaying _ motive _that seems to justify it all. He buckles up and starts the engine.

_ He can’t be fixed. _

Bruce taps his finger to the rhythm of the engine. He empties his mind with success this time. He has enough sound and surroundings to distract himself with. His sole focus remains on the mission, not the person. 

_ Don’t be weak, you can do this. _

The world is still for Bruce, just for him. His turns are sharp, his body remaining still on each one. Still, ever so still the world will remain. Bruce doesn’t need to speak or think about what he is doing. He needs to rid Gotham of filth and that is his job. That is the only thing he will ever need to think about. 

_ He wants me to fold, he always does. _

He parks in the alleyway behind the pharmacy. He kicks down the door, the rusty hinges breaking in an instant. Inside, against the cement floor, there is a trail of blood. It dried to the floor, lacking freshness of any kind. The smell is not rotten, which leads Bruce to believe that whoever’s body it came from was properly discarded. It’s more respectful than Joker usually is with the dead. 

Bruce follows the trail of dark blood. Bruce doesn’t look up, he doesn’t need to. Where it leads is obvious. The pole where he was tied still remains, slathered in dried blood. There is a bright red bow tied to the pole itself, a lively color against the brown. There is a letter on the ground, a still puddle of black blood beneath it. The envelope is inside a plastic gallon bag, fingerprints of blood smeared against the seal. 

Bruce opens the bag and retrieves the envelope from inside. It’s considerably larger than the last letter Joker left for him. The envelope is a green color, Bruce’s name is written in purple ink across the front of it. 

> _ Bruce. _

His _ real _name. The ink flows like a fountain pen. The penmanship is not great, but he doesn’t expect the Joker to know much about penmanship anyway. He hesitates to read it further. He tucks it in his belt compartment for later. 

He continues to follow the droplets of blood towards the corner with the plastic table. On the table are three sets of luxury watches. In front of the middle one, which is placed in precise symmetry with the other two watches, is a black notecard. The side facing up is blank. Bruce flips it carefully, only finding writing more writing, done in white ink. It is barely literate. 

> _ “A king made me a clown! A queen made me a Peer! But first, God made me a man!” I know what made me a clown, but do you know what made you? _

More taunting, in the form of more direct references to his parents’ death. Bruce gets the chilling sense that Joker is watching him. He looks around him and finds no one in the room but himself. Bruce takes a shaky breath; he pulls the other letter back out of his pocket and tears open the envelope carelessly.

> _ You play so well, Batsy. I can always count on you to be the hopeless romantic, remembering all of our whims together. Do you remember what happened here? I do, I remember it as clear as yesterday. You tried so hard to be mean, to act. To hate._
> 
> _ I recall you saying something along the lines of “we don’t get to have this kind of ending”. It was haunting, deary. And long hours, days, and years, I would think about your words. How cruel you were, truly! _ _ But, as of late, I have thought of them in a better light. What you said was wise, it was true. No matter what I think, I will always falter to my old ways. No matter what you think, you will try to be the hero._
> 
> _ But, if I’m not Joker and you’re not Batman, who is to say we are any different than the people and filth who walk the street? _ _ If I’m not Joker, and I have no audience, what is the point of being a clown? If you’re not Batman, and you have no city to save, what is the point of being a hero? _
> 
> _ Meet me where the Sparks first flew, Dark Knight._

Bruce pauses and inhales sharply. He closes his eyes briefly and raises his head to face the ceiling. He assumed right from the very beginning. The appeal is undeniable. Bruce suddenly finds himself unbalanced. He grasps around frantically, fumbling for anything to latch onto. But he is standing still, ever so still. The room is deathly silent, the atmosphere cold and calculating. It is perfect for the occasion, for the purpose. Bruce moves, refusing to give in.

He knows exactly where to go. Their first meeting place, underneath Gotham’s bridge from the Northside to Southside. There is an underpass, quiet and entirely secluded since Joker’s arrival in Gotham. Not even the drug addicts touch it. To everyone in Gotham, it is forbidden ground. Neither Bruce or Joker applies to those rules. 

He exits the drugstore the same way he entered. Outside, he spots a man passing by the alleyway, twirling a pair of keys in his hands. He wears a red shirt, with the logo of the pharmacy on it. Bruce watches as he opens the door. The night time is fading away from Bruce. The early hours of the morning had begun. This is a challenge, designed especially for Bruce, not Batman. The letter hinted towards their first meeting, in which Joker had attempted to blow up the bridge with rigged explosives. If he wants to recreate it, and Bruce knows more than anything else Joker does, he’ll have the explosives rigged. 

Bruce doesn’t like the idea. It’ll expose him, the real him. The real him, which has only seeped out in the earliest part of his days, is too empathetic to handle anything Joker has planned. Bruce knows, and he has known, that the minute he sees him as another person, all is lost. The minute he recognizes him as real, alive, and human he will cave to anything he asks. He has known it from the very beginning and, as such, has tried to hide it. The moment he is able–– and _ willing _–– to see through his point of view, he will empathize and forgive. He doesn’t want to forgive, he knows he shouldn’t forgive. 

_ But, I have already… haven’t I? _

Bruce can reason with himself all day, until the time passes and until the bridge blows and the people die. He’s done it all before. He wastes time on the details because the details keep him going. If he doesn’t, he’ll drown in the sea that Joker so willingly provides. 

Instead, Bruce drives the Batmobile towards the bridge. Few drivers cross at this early hour. He expects by the time he gets there, the number of people will double. He speeds through the streets, with little regard for the world around him. He has still yet to make his decision. 

_ Give in or give up… _

_ The car rumbled beneath them and the blood traveled across the console in a way that Bruce refused to notice. Joker held his frail body in his hands; a smile was noticeably absent from his face. One of his hands, unpainted, held up his neck gently, so he would not choke on his own blood. He applied pressure to his neck at the same time. He whispered to Dick, a mantra Bruce would never forget. _

_ “What it takes, little one,” he spoke softly. “What it takes, we will do.” The cave lit up as Bruce sped inside, parking recklessly on the platform. Bruce got out of the vehicle and Joker did as well. Bruce walked towards the medical room, designated for emergencies. It was in place for himself. Not for Dick. Alfred came rushing quickly, flinching slightly at the sight of the Joker. He looked to Bruce, who did not acknowledge him, brushing past him to enter the room. Joker didn’t acknowledge him either, following Bruce blindly. _

_ Bruce grabbed frantically once inside the room, fumbling for what he needed. He pulled out gauze for packing the wound. But when he turned around, he was too–– _

_ I was too late. Too late, too late–– _

_ Alfred left in a hushed type of way, barely standing at the funeral. His face was too pale and his voice too cold. He was ready to go. Bruce didn’t need to say goodbye so all he did was nod, as if his permission was needed. Bruce saw a face in the crowd, one he recognized but couldn’t place. _

_ What it takes. _

The decision remains unmade and Bruce drives to the tunnel that leads to the underpass with a newfound anxiousness. As he passes, the homeless and streetwalkers dwindle to nothing on the sidewalk. There are no more tents by the time he passes the entrance to the tunnel. Inside the tunnel, it conceals the Batmobile effectively. The only sound is the rumble of the Batmobile speeding against the unfinished road.

In the distance, Bruce can see a figure standing alone. The closer he gets, the more the anxiety builds within him. 

_ What am I doing? What will any of this achieve? _

Then, as if some kind of mist has faded from the scene, he can see the Joker clearly. But, it isn’t really _ The Joker_, not really. Who he sees is someone else entirely. Someone he thought he saw at a funeral. Someone with scars on both sides of his face, connecting to his lips in a permanent way. 

_ Conflict is ever-flowing, a stream of hurt and death. All is gone and yet everything remains, as if it is truly intact. Perhaps, he was right all along. Perhaps, I have been lying to myself. _

Yet, Bruce knew this would happen. Just as expected, calculated to get such a response. Joker is better than ever. Bruce stops the engine and pauses, thinking once more about his choices. He picks up tapping his index finger against the steering wheel in a nervous fashion. He can change his mind, even here. Sure, he is desecrating sacred ground in the process and could be killing thousands of people; it isn’t something he hasn’t already done before. Not intentionally anyway.

His hair has a strange greenish tint to it and is soaking wet, as if he tried to wash the color out. He is staring back at Bruce through the glass. There is something there that catches Bruce’s attention, something distinctly human; it’s a plea. In _ that _way, he looks back to Bruce. It could easily make him leave the car… if he wasn’t Joker. 

But, he doesn’t have to be Joker. All he has to be is someone, someone human. Someone relatable and someone who is there. There isn’t the toxicity or the bloodlust in those eyes. There is only a question, a begging action. Bruce wants to do it. He does, he really does. 

_ No. No. Whatever he is pretending to be isn’t the truth, you know that. Whatever he is playing at— it won’t last long. You can get past this, you can get thro–– _

“Please,” he speaks. The eyes, the face, the look. They’re all equally lethal. Bruce gets out of the Batmobile with little style or grace. Joker walks over, from a few feet away, with little performance to his step. It’s entirely out of character for him. The closer he comes, the further away Bruce goes from sanity. 

_ Perhaps, I don’t have to be anyone. Perhaps, I don’t even have to be Bruce. _

All the years of forced stress and contractual morality have plagued Bruce since he started all of this. If he hadn’t done it, Gotham would still be drowning. But, Gotham can only ever be barely above the surface, every wave splashing its face like an insult. It all adds up over time. His body is broken and his mind is fractured beyond belief. 

But Joker is always there, with that bizarre gaze. With those bloody hands that kill anything in sight that _ isn’t _ him. With a smile that inspires fear in everyone _ but _ Bruce. With a style that is designed to catch only _ Bruce’s _attention. Bruce has seen this coming for many, many years. It is as if it was inevitable, destined to happen. 

But he is full of contradictions. Joker kills and he loves, indiscriminately. He has taken people away and given them out. But, unlike almost everyone else, he has been there. Through everything, through _ everyone. _No one can claim that. At the very least, they could be friends and, at the very least, that should be a terrifying thought. 

Bruce is still undecided by the time Joker is only a few inches away. His gaze, as always, is penetrating. Dark and entrancing, all the same. He mentally intertwines with Bruce in an impeccably undeniable way. Joker stands so very still, inspecting him, uncharacteristically quietly. He tries to survey the area; he tries to let go of the hold on matching Joker’s stare. He fails at this simple task.

“You’re still so afraid,” Joker whispers. “What are you so afraid of?” Bruce isn’t really sure what he calls it. He’s right, he is afraid. But he knows that he should be afraid _ of _him, not the situation. Everyone else is; the real question is—

_ Why aren’t I afraid of him? _

“Well, if you aren’t going to take off that stupid mask––“ Bruce does just that. The cowl is off, falling to the ground in an anticlimactic way. It barely makes a sound when it hits the road. Joker stares at him intensely. Bruce stares back, forcing himself not to look away from Joker. It takes a while before he can speak. Joker raises his hand to touch the dark circles of black makeup around his eyes in fascination. “You know, Bruce, I don’t think I ever thought about what you did to cover your eyes.” Bruce snorts and it breaks the tension faster than Bruce can keep up with. He goes back to hanging his head. Joker was always good with awkward moments.

“It’s not necessary… just out of habit,” he responds. It’s natural, too natural. Joker clicks his tongue, smiles, and lowers his hand. There is a noticeable pause.

“Is that so?” Joker replies. He smiles again, something that feels infectious and Joker knows it. “Come on, baby. You can smile now.” He steps closer to Bruce. Bruce can feel the warmth he radiates. He feels so cold in comparison. He doesn’t move and he doesn’t push him away. He can’t answer his question. Bruce just feels his fear reignite, into violent high-rising flames. Joker’s smile fades but he does not speak; he only stares with a concerned expression and waits for Bruce to choke out his words. He does, with little grace or complexity. 

“I am afraid that I will make the wrong choice,” Bruce speaks slowly. “I am afraid… that I have forgotten what brought me here, to begin with.” With those words, Bruce can see flashes: of gunshots, pearls dropping, bodies pouring blood, and tears falling. Joker takes to tilting his head and staring at Bruce from the angle, as if trying to see his thoughts.

“You’re afraid of things that hold you back, then?” he replies. Bruce looks up and matches his eyes. He furrows his brows and shivers when Joker reaches for his hand and surprisingly Bruce does not pull away. “They have held you back for so long, Bruce. Haven’t you ever wondered what it would feel like to live without them looking over your shoulder?” The question in of itself scares Bruce. 

“No,” he mumbles. He casts his gaze back to his feet. Then, he thinks of Dick. Dick and his robin. The one and only Robin.

“Without their pesky little voices invading your mind, without you beneath their thumb? Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to lose control?” Bruce can feel Joker snatch at all his senses with his ruthless verbiage. In many ways, Bruce can understand the urge to punch Joker. He can understand the pain at his mockery, his cruel words a direct insult to his parents. 

What he doesn’t understand is the other emotion. The one that forces him to look a little too far into himself. Bruce has the urge to silence him, to quiet him, to… hush him. He has the urge to let his voice fade away, as well as his actions and character, and take him into the darkness. Where that would be, Bruce doesn’t know. All he knows is the emotion: desire. All he knows is the urge. 

“Don’t you wish that the little birdie wouldn’t watch us anymore?” Bruce stills.

_ His pale face, in the coffin, beneath the dirt, haunted Bruce. He saw him everywhere: in the streets, on the rooftops, inside the warehouses, and riding the carousels. He wished for peace, for rest. Eventually, he disappeared, only to slip into his nightmares. He’d wake in a sweat, with his pale face. Then, he would visit the gravestone on the Wayne property, just beyond the garden. His gravestone sat intimidatingly in the early morning hours. _

“Don’t you wish they could rest?”

_ Dick Grayson’s gravestone had the carving of a robin bird on his tombstone, per Alfred’s specific request. Every time Bruce saw it, he felt nauseous and unwell. The grass had grown over the plotted earth above his coffin. If Bruce closed his eyes, he would feel the suffocation and he’d smell the dirt. He’d feel the coldness and the cramped space. He’d feel death, in all its assumed forms. _

“Don’t you wish that you could be any of the people who try so hard to protect?”

_ Dick had found the cave that night. Alfred had shown him around, much to Bruce’s dismay. The next night, despite Bruce’s set restrictions, Dick went out alone. He wasn’t that old and he didn’t necessarily have a death sentence for himself. All he wanted was to see Bruce in action. Bruce believed this was to confirm what he had seen before. _

_ The streets were dark that night, street lamps illuminating the sidewalks in an ominous way. Bruce had found Joker’s newest hideout. Unbeknownst to him, Dick has followed him. Back at the manor, his pet bird sat in its cage and watched as he exited through the window. Inside the funhouse, toys were stacked up, leading to Joker’s throne of plastic green and purple. There were only two henchmen guarding him. It would have been a forgettable night. _

_ Bruce could hear Joker’s laughter and went towards it, going past the winding funhouse-mirror hallways. When he arrived, Bruce defended himself from the gunfire. Then, in an instant of turning, he spotted Dick behind him. In his tense form, he looked more than afraid. Joker watched as Bruce’s movements became too desperate. He watched as one of his thugs fired the gun. _

_ He promptly removed himself from his chair and murdered the two henchmen discreetly. Bruce knew, even then, that Joker never did what he did to hurt Bruce. In his own sick and twisted frame of mind, Joker thought he was helping Bruce. This was hurting Bruce and thus, Joker did everything in his power to adapt to the situation. He didn’t know Dick, nor would he ever. He didn't know why he was important to Bruce. But, he remained by his side regardless. When he was buried, Joker was not seen for months. _

_ When he came back, Bruce began to refocus. When Joker came back, his life started to have a purpose again. The intent and the drive for justice returned, a little harsher than before. Joker never mentioned Dick and he never needed an answer for what occurred that night. He never needed anything from Bruce. He never took anything from Bruce. He could have blamed Joker. He could have pinned him as the cause. But, he never did. He never pinned him for anything other than another lost soul to Gotham’s greedy, dirty, corrupt, and beguiling embrace. _

“Bruce?” Joker inquires. He looks up at Joker and, all around them, the empty space surroundings feel more and more claustrophobic. “Let go.” Bruce is staring at him, in an attempt to craft a monster. In an attempt to match his face with the demon that everyone else can see. He tries and tries… and fails. “Let them all go, Bruce.” He breathes in sharply, taking in the fumes that the Batmobile puffs out. He closes his eyes and pictures the cabin.

“Do you remember?” Bruce starts. “Do you remember when things were simple? Before all the death?” Joker doesn’t recoil but he doesn’t lean in either. Bruce opens his eyes slowly. Joker stares back blankly, as if embarrassed and lost for words. Bruce answers for him. “I do.” 

_ “Hey-a Batsy! Ready for another round!” _

_ “Joker, stop this. You’ll die.” _

_ “Doesn’t matter. I’m still here now, aren’t I?” _

“Yes,” Joker lets out reluctantly. “I do… those weren’t very fun though, were they?” A hint of a smile appears on his face. Bruce, despite everything, smiles. Then, he laughs; Joker joins in. They laugh together, the sound echoing from the overpass’s curvature. 

_ Bruce could see his father, enjoying his life, laughing and living. Then, in a single flash, dying on the alleyway pavement. Then, Joker began to kill and those memories began to resurface, painful and stealing his focus and concentration. Then, it passed. Like a phase. Then, so did the disgust. Then, the thrill of the fight. Then, the purpose. _

_ And now… I have the answer. _

“No, they weren’t.” The laughter goes on. Then, when the laughter finally fades and the silence envelops them, Bruce can feel everything. Here, with him, he is at peace. The overwhelming and crippling fear has left him. Bruce finally feels the relief he has been waiting to feel for so long. He no longer can even picture the cabin. There is no reason for it anymore. Not even meditation has given him this calm.

_ There is nothing left to fear. _

“What is your name?” Bruce asks. Joker doesn’t flinch or pause.

“I would ask you the same thing but––“

“It would be pointless?” Bruce interrupts. Joker bites his lip nervously. Bruce is entirely aware of the way things will play out. What he doesn’t know is if he can rationalize it. He finds himself oddly without care. 

“Yes, it would, Brucey!” Joker says. He reaches out and takes Bruce’s hand, pulling his glove off in a swift motion. He carefully plants a kiss upon it, almost too carefully. He hovers over his hand. “My name is Jack,” he whispers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He rose back up, letting go of Bruce’s hand in the process. It’s all very gentle. Bruce motions towards the car and _ Jack’s _eyes trace his movements.

“Get in,” Bruce says. He opens the front door and waits until Jack understands the cue. His eyes expand as wide as saucers, shocked to the core at the offer. When he doesn’t move, Bruce smirks and crosses his arms. “Did I stutter?” Jack looks back to Bruce and smiles in a mischievous way. 

_ It should feel wrong but— _

“Yes, sir,” he says. He gets in and Bruce presses a tiny button on his belt that overrides the Batmobile’s facial recognition software. Bruce picks up his glove and cowl, walks over to the passenger seat, gets in, and throws both in the back of the car; he doesn’t replace his cowl. Jack admires the interior, placing his hands on the steering wheel in childish awe. “I guess dreams do come true.” Bruce smirks at that comment.

“Drive,” says Bruce. Jack snorted at that.

“Always so commanding, must be a personality trait.” He places his foot against the gas pedal and swerves the Batmobile around. Then, he pauses, one hand left on the steering wheel; he stares out at the road ahead. Bruce looks at him curiously. Then, he turns to him, with _ that _look in his eyes, and lunges at him. Jack wraps a hand around his neck and pulls Bruce in. He doesn’t stop it from happening, it’d be pointless. He expects something much different than what occurs; Joker does not kiss him. He simply holds him in place. It would uncomfortable if Bruce still had boundaries. “Do you–– do you love me?” Jack is a few centimeters away from touching Bruce.

“That’s… a little more… complicated,” Bruce whispers. Jack hovers in place, his eyes tracing the distinct lines of Bruce’s face. “I love everyone, everyone and… _ anyone _.” Bruce can feel him exhale slowly through his nose.

“So you can’t help but love me, eh?” he whispers back, raising his eyebrows humorously. Bruce nods timidly; he feels equivalent to a child, naive and starstruck. There were no real words for the way Bruce felt things, judging by the countless times he had to explain it to himself in his mind. Those were all rationalizations of it, not acceptances. There was no validation for it; he never thought there would be.

“Yes,” Bruce mumbled back. Jack’s thumb brushes against the hair at the back of Bruce’s neck. The gesture is strangely comforting.

“Surely there is more to it than that?” he prompts. “Even someone so special, like me?” There is a sarcastic note to his voice. Bruce doesn’t know how to answer that question. The truth still stings yet Bruce does not want to lie. There is no longer a reason to lie. The fact that Jack –– _ Joker _ –– sits in the driver’s seat of the Batmobile is already enough evidence to damn him for life. 

_ What’s a little more harm going to do to me now? _

“You’re… different,” Bruce says slowly. “The compulsions you have, the face you paint on––“

“Painted––“

“I can feel them all run through me. It’s impossible to not relate to you––“

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Jack interrupts. “You’re avoiding the question, Bruce.” He leans in ever so closely, tossing his grip on his neck and cocking his head to remain in a tilt. “Do you love me?” he asks again. “Your answer will not change our destination but, I must receive the truth. I do not wish to have any secrets between us.” 

_ I can’t lie. _

_ There was a moment of silence between them. The clock struck midnight and his games were over with. Joker had given up trying to convince the Bat of his viewpoint. It was a typical night. It didn’t stay that way. On the ride over to Arkham, Joker began a new kind of act. _

_ Bruce stopped the Batmobile at first. He wasn’t sure what exactly was happening but he knew that, whatever it was, it would surely go away. He started choking, seemingly on his own saliva. The more Bruce drove on, the worst his breathing got. Bruce’s worry vastly increased by the time he dragged Joker’s body from the vehicle. _

_ He started with the chest compressions first; not because it was the logical choice but because it was the ethical one. He hesitated for a moment, then he started the mouth to mouth resuscitations. Later, Bruce would come to find out the practice wasn’t inherently necessary. In a moment of panic, Bruce did not see rationality. _

_ He hovered over him for a moment, another lapse of deep hesitation and consideration passing judgment in his head. But, before he could finish that thought, Joker lunged up at him. He captured his lips immediately, tugging Bruce down on top of him in the process. Vibrations of laughter could be felt against his skin. _

_ For a moment, brief and unfounded, Bruce didn’t pull away from it; his heart skipped a beat and his breathing slowed. Evidently, it was Joker that pulled away. He had a smile on his face, at first. Then, the humor he found in the situation died on his face the moment he noticed Bruce’s reaction; it was replaced with a seriousness Bruce had never quite seen before. Bruce felt a chilling feeling occupying his entire body. He hovered for a moment, matching his eyes to Joker’s, and Joker’s to his. _

_ Joker, experimentally, inched closer back to Bruce; he remained hovering. The world seemed to stop when he kissed him again. It was more like a peck this time, less overbearing and more gentle. That scared Bruce more than anything else the Joker could ever do. He rose unsteadily away from him and stumbled towards the Batmobile in rapid succession. Joker did not move, simply staring as Bruce drove away. _

_ Joker didn’t return to Gotham for a month after that and Bruce was happy for it. _

“Well?” Jack asks. Bruce looks at him deeply, analyzing the little details on his face that he can only see when this close to him. He has medium length eyelashes and larger pores. His dark eyes are really closer to the color of an acacia tree. The roots of his hair remind Bruce of dirty pennies made of copper. Zinc would be too light.

“I love you,” Bruce says quietly. “I always have... and… I have always fought it.” Jack’s facial expression changes minutely, a corner of his lips upturning. His eyes grow wider the more silence passes, the more his words set in. He unexpectedly pulls Bruce in for a hug. It’s tight and Bruce isn’t sure how to react at first. Against his armored shoulder pads, Bruce could see the tears drip and drag across Jack’s face and onto Bruce’s suit. 

“I like your honesty Bruce,” he responds slowly. “But, I might have been lying to you earlier. It really did matter.” He pulls away rather suddenly to look Bruce in the eye. He wipes away at his eyes and nose feverishly. “I waited, for what felt like a very long time. There were highs and there were lows. You made me so much more interesting than I ever could have been.

“There were times that I could remember where I thought I had come close. There were times that I was reminded of how far I was from getting to you. But, now, with you… here, I don’t regret a single part of it. I had known and I had ideas that you liked me more than you let on. I had the idea, but that doesn’t mean I could ever get you to––“

“I am here now,” Bruce interrupts. “For whatever that means.” Jack nods slowly, staring at him with an intense gleam in his eyes.

“Oh, Bruce… it means the world.” Bruce is the one to lean in this time, gentle and cautious. There isn't any hesitation this time, they both know what is coming. It has been an inevitability, something that Bruce and Jack knew would happen over the years. 

_ Eventualities are always set in stone, never to be broken and never to be crossed. We were the stupid ones for thinking we could somehow escape this. _

Bruce kisses him and the deed is done. Jack gives back to Bruce, which is something he should have expected but didn’t. His mouth tastes like sugar cubes and cigarettes. There is little push or pull into anything else but kissing. For whatever reason, both feel it is inappropriate. When they do pull away from each other though, Bruce brandishes a smile. It is the vulnerable kind, the kind that is so easily stolen from Bruce. Jack smiles back, in the hopeful notion that he will be able to maintain Bruce’s interest.

They drive off, with little care for the rest of the world. They leave two people behind. 

_ And it feels… like a relief. _


End file.
